


I See My Forever In You

by goldleaf1066



Category: The Dark Crystal (1982), The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance (TV)
Genre: (porn with a smidge of plot), A heady dose of Feels, Alien anatomy, Comfort Sex, M/M, Nightmares, Other, PWP, Shared Scars, Softness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:49:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25694554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldleaf1066/pseuds/goldleaf1066
Summary: There is no dream so bad a little unity can't mend things.
Relationships: skekGra/urGoh (Dark Crystal)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 33





	I See My Forever In You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [avi17](https://archiveofourown.org/users/avi17/gifts).



> For Avi17 who gave me a prompt that I promptly only remembered about as I was editing this (thankfully my subconscious kept me on track!)
> 
> #gaygrandpas4life

They’d bound his wrists and ankles before they’d driven the nail into his head, and though somewhere as deep as the metal spike itself he knows it’s just the blankets, just a nightmare, he still thrashes his way out of the dream with hands and feet catching in the fabric and knotting him further into his panic until he’s crying out with fear, voice high and panicked and something he’d never want anyone else to hear.

A hand flies out from the unknown and grasps his upper arm and he jolts in fright. A second clamps down on his shoulder and he does his best to struggle free before belatedly registering the third and fourth at work freeing his legs from their tangle. He can’t even open his eyes; he’s paralysed, caught in the horrors of the past, but he can feel the warmth of breath against his cheek and the low murmur of his name unfurling from a familiar tongue.

_He was there too. He saw, he felt it._

SkekGra tries to breathe, to speak, to see, but the terror has its claws in him and he can’t shake loose from his squawking hysteria. He kicks at the floor in an attempt to gain purchase and his tail hits something solid – a thigh perhaps – and urGoh, because of course it is urGoh who is still holding him down despite every curse on Thra being levied at him, gives up on his legs and instead shifts and half-clambers over him, trying in his own blessed way to ground him with his body. SkekGra baulks, bowing off the floor against him and pushing him off, throwing the wretched blanket at him as he at last manages to flip himself over and scramble away to – to nowhere, to the other side of the loft, to cower and shiver and peer with one eye at the mess he’d just left behind.

_They’d held him down, too._

For a while, there is only the sound of his gasping. UrGoh has pulled the blanket from his head and does little else but meet his eye. SkekGra can hardly see him in the dimness, a fuzzy shape in the grey. After a moment, urGoh reaches out his hand again.

“Will you come to me?” he asks.

SkekGra shakes his head. The nail seems to pulse in retaliation, splitting him anew. 

UrGoh doesn’t insist, instead arranging himself and his many limbs into a sitting position, with the blanket draped over his lap. Neither of them is wearing any clothes, which makes skekGra’s display all the more embarrassing now that the chill of the night air is sobering him up. UrGoh’s sense of humour is strange but he would not tease him for that, and he is glad of it. The blanket at least brings some semblance of dignity to the situation.

It is now that skekGra realises he is bleeding from small wound on the end of his nose that leaves the tell-tale metallic taste on his tongue when he licks it. He doesn’t remember scratching himself, then in horror glances up at urGoh, sight improving as the seconds pass, to see the mirror of his injury between his nostrils. He must have caught him with his claws as he tried to get away. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, gut lurching as much with the lingering memory of the dream as with the latest calamity he has caused them both. He covers his eyes with his hands, winding himself more tightly into a ball. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“Now, Heretic,” comes urGoh’s voice in the dark. He only calls him that when he’s being ridiculous, and if he were standing outside of this moment he might find it cause for his temper to flare, but here, now, as bared as his throat is to him, he finds it an odd comfort. UrGoh isn’t chiding him for real; he is too intrinsically kind for that. “This is not the first scar you have given me, and it won’t be the last.”

SkekGra lowers his hands but remains otherwise still. “If that’s supposed to make me feel better then you’re as misguided as I was.”

UrGoh cocks his head. “Misguided?”

“Then,” skekGra says. They’ve gone over it, had this conversation too many times now to need any elaboration. ‘Then’ is _Then_ , their failure, their punishment. SkekGra has agreed, in a past discussion not unlike this one, to let go of the power the event has over him. The first step was blurring out the description of it, giving away its name. The second step he’s not sure either of them know. It’s been one hundred trine and the nightmares have yet to cease. 

At urGoh’s silence, he unravels himself just a little. “Seeing my scars on your body doesn’t bring me any joy,” he says, scowling. 

“Why is that?”

“You do this on purpose,” skekGra growls, then bites his tongue. UrGoh isn’t the problem, he is. “I’ve told you this before.”

He hears the quiet sound of the blanket falling to the floor as urGoh moves toward him. It’s a dance, well-practised; he doesn’t whip his tail away as urGoh sits beside him, twining his own around it.

“You have,” urGoh concedes, “But I would like to hear again why you think I am not beautiful.”

They’ve been here before and he falls for it every single time. “You know I don’t think that, _tell me_ you know that.” He falls for it because how could he not defend urGoh’s beauty to him now that he has the gift of it? So long spent in abhorrence of the very thought of being less than the sum of their parts he must make up for it, he _must_.

The light is slowly growing, skekGra realises, and he can see more clearly with every passing moment, and he wants to duck his head as urGoh shows him an upper-arm and the criss-cross of silver lines that cover it. 

_Gruenaks_ , he thinks, with their wicked little blades. His own arm tingles in psychosomatic itchiness.

“And this one?” urGoh asks, leaning back to show him his abdomen, and though skekGra knows what he’ll see for it is splashed haphazardly across his own midsection too, he still looks, and he can feel the nastily-healed knife-wound crawling over his own belly as sharply as the day he earned it when he sees its reflection painted across the gentle sag of urGoh’s stomach.

He unwinds a little more, reaching out to touch it. UrGoh allows him, and his skin is soft under his fingertips. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“You already said that,” urGoh points out. He places a hand over skekGra’s, steers it up, over his body, his breasts, his ribs, up to curve over his cheek. He hums with satisfaction, letting his own hand drop.

“I’m still sorry,” skekGra says quietly, stroking his face with his thumb. 

“How long will you be sorry for? I forgave you long ago.” UrGoh fixes him with a look, his heavy brow furrowing. “I do not think myself as any less because of what you have done to us.”

SkekGra winces at that, but keeps his mouth shut. 

UrGoh goes on. “These scars make me think of our past, how divided we were, and now, how we mirror one another. They remind me of you.” He frowns more deeply as skekGra takes his hand away. 

“I don’t want you to think of me how I used to be,” he says.

“Forgive yourself for things you cannot change.” UrGoh curls a long-fingered hand beneath skekGra’s jaw and bumps their noses together. The cut stings him, will be stinging them both. “Your past, our failures, this little scratch.”

“I don’t deserve you,” skekGra whispers, and he wants to weep. The nightmare has left him now, but he feels vulnerable, and had spent so long avoiding such frailties that even now it’s hard to be weak in front of the only creature on Thra he would die for, if only it meant anything other than urGoh’s shared doom. To find safety and comfort, and peace in a Mystic’s arms holds some novelty for him still. He buries his face in urGoh’s hair, wraps his arms as best he can around him in return and lets the tears come.

He must have dozed off for he wakes in a far more pleasant environ than before. 

He is surrounded by a Mystic ouroboros of sorts with UrGoh sprawled in a crescent around him nose to un-bitten tail. Three of his arms are looped around and under him and hold him close. The fourth’s hand is drawing slow circles in the small of his back. The dawn inches over them, and skekGra can see once more the scars that litter urGoh’s flesh and his own, and he tries so hard to see beyond them, to look instead and worship afresh the dips and angles and tender parts of urGoh’s body, for skeGra finds that particular reverence comes easily to him. He follows the curlicues and whorls in his skin, ever deeper by the trine, all the way up to the ones that swirl around his eyes and finds urGoh’s cross-eyed gaze upon him.

“How are you feeling?” he asks in a low voice.

“Better,” skekGra admits, squirrelling himself further into urGoh’s embrace. UrGoh is a slightly larger creature than he, all neck and tail and folded legs belying a height greater than that of skekGra at full-stretch, but he would never admit it to anyone but urGoh how safe that makes him feel. He used to be fearless, he thinks, leaning up to rub his cheek against urGoh’s, but now his only true dread is losing this. 

“Good,” urGoh says. His hands are hesitant now not from the inexperience of many trine ago but from an unworded question. They have a routine many mornings, but he can’t be sure of his other half’s receptiveness after the difficulty in the night.

SkekGra pushes his nose up under urGoh’s chin, feels the hairs there ticking his nostrils. “Please,” he says, “please.”

He’s trapped then, but this time the pressure is welcome as urGoh shifts on top of him and flattens his tongue against skekGra’s throat to lap at his pulse. SkekGra can already feel the first bloom of wetness between his legs as he drops his thighs open to give urGoh room, and urGoh seems to be in similar state as their lower bodies align deliciously. 

How many trine has it been and yet he is still so irretrievably in the throes of that early passion, of those honeymoon unum, that he barely has to glance at urGoh at any given moment to feel that throb of attraction and the heat in his face and his loins ignite. Every day he grows more arresting and skekGra wants to tell him this, has told him endlessly, needs to tell him again but urGoh is licking his cheek and he wants to slide their tongues against one another so he does, and the noise urGoh makes somewhere deep down in the very depths of him rumbles through skekGra like a shifting of the earth.

He can’t help but think back every time they do this to the days when he would have screamed and laughed and howled at the thought of so much as a civil conversation with his other half. And here, now, he wants to scream and laugh and howl at his stupid, near-sighted self for so much time wasted outside of these arms, removed from urGoh’s touch, urGoh’s gaze, urGoh’s body.

There is hair everywhere and skekGra pushes it back to look at urGoh’s face. He is smiling at him, damn him, damn him and his gentleness, and skekGra damns himself for good measure for smiling back, for laughing anyway, for crying out with the sheer joy urGoh’s affection stokes in him. 

“Do you think I am beautiful now?” UrGoh asks, but there is a glint in his eye, and skekGra can’t even pretend to be annoyed as he reaches up again into urGoh’s hair and pulls him closer so his delicate hidden ear can know the flicker of his tongue against it.

“Would I want you inside me if I didn’t?”

UrGoh twists his head away and catches skekGra’s neck in a play-bite, long jaw closing over his throat with no threat but the lightest scrape of blunt teeth. SkekGra’s groan is muffled, vibrating against urGoh’s mouth. At the same time, urGoh’s hind-hands are occupied down below with two fingertips of one running through the moisture of skekGra’s slit again and again, and the other guiding his erections and placing their tips tentatively against skekGra’s opening. Then a steady, relentless push as skekGra tries to relax and take all of him; UrGoh is bigger than he had been used to so long ago and he lets his head fall back at the familiar stretch, waits for it to melt into needing more, and it does, and it always does, and he pants and lifts up his hips and wraps his legs around urGoh’s waist in sudden desperation.

The position is not the easiest for either of them; urGoh’s thighs and arms quivering as he holds as much of himself over skekGra as he can, and skekGra’s own hind-arms, wrapped and bound against his shoulders, aching against the floor beneath their combined weight. But how he delights in the down-up-down of urGoh’s hips against his own, driving into him steadily as he himself lets go of the low sounds he has kept swallowed down until now. 

The thrills are manifold: to see urGoh losing his composure like this, panting, shivering, dark eyes glued to him and hands making it their mission to touch every part of his body at the same time (sweeping steadily across the planes of him or tightly squeezing a thigh or curving a palm over a breast or stroking him closer and closer to completion even as his lower half grinds against him ceaselessly) sends skekGra’s thoughts spiralling but this time in the most golden elation. To be likely the only creature of Thra to _ever_ see a Mystic in this state, to know that _this_ Mystic is his and his alone and that he is the reason for such hunger; to remember the confused discovery in those early gazes as urGoh learned just what wonderful things their bodies could do, to see it melt into assuredness and desire and purpose, to know that he is the reason for all of this is enough, skekGra thinks, surely enough, to spontaneously re-meld them once and for all in a rapture of luminescence and love and eternal joining. Surely.

Every movement they share, every moment is another step away from their beginnings and from what came before. A step away too, perhaps from the path they set out upon together. How can there be such ecstasy if halved as they are is the mistake? The thought pierces his awareness like an arrow as it always does, forbidden and unspoken. Does he really want to be whole or does he just want urGoh, forever and always, right here in this instant, needing him too? Does urGoh feel the same force diverting him from their goal and into the arms of his other self? How far skekGra has come from the days of disdaining his other half's audacity in existing to now being absolutely unable to be parted from him. To loving him with the intensity of the deep fires of the world, the eternal rhythm of the tides, the constant and unwavering light of the three suns, 

SkekGra feels his eyes grow damp again as urGoh wraps two arms around him and hauls him close, thrusting deep and slow; they are pressed together body to body, two old and strange beings with voices joining and tails thrashing. When he comes, clenching around urGoh and gasping out his name and hearing at the same time the strained sound of his own falling from urGoh’s mouth, he would give up even unity to stay in this instant for all the trine he has left.

*

“Don’t tell me you’re going back to sleep?”

It’s later, and the suns are climbing. UrGoh has long since rolled off of him but is not far away and lies on his back with limbs scattered and eyes closed. The ageing morning throws patterns through the gaps in the stones above, refracted and made colourful by the hanging jars and lanterns that catch and scatter the glow upon his body; he is illuminated and luminous, his angles and curves made both sharper and softer as the day progresses across him.

“Mmm,” urGoh says, stretching and letting light and shadow chase each other from the tips of his sixteen fingers to the tufted end of his tail.

SkekGra sometimes cannot believe how such an incandescent being can be so wholly unconcerned with or ignorant of his own allure; indeed, urGoh has flopped back into a sprawl, eyes half-open, idly drawing circles in the dust of the floor between them with a fingertip without any indication that he is aware of how he looks; lying open-legged with hair wild and cheeks still darkened by the gradual ebbing of his excitement. 

“Is that all you have to say?”

“I didn’t sleep well last night,” urGoh murmurs, tail still twitching.

“I’m sorry,” skekGra says, again, then raises a hand when urGoh looks about to protest. “Not for _that_ ,” he says, frowning, “but for… still being like this. Keeping you up. With the less pleasant activities.” 

He can’t stop looking at the cut on urGoh’s nose. UrGoh meanwhile has closed his eyes again, content to yield to his proclivity for existing perpetually on the cusp of slumber.

“Annoyed then. Tired of being tired because of… well, me.”

“I am tired,” urGoh says, eyes still shut and the kindness in his voice is like an embrace, “and you are tired. The world is tired.” He shrugs both sets of shoulders. “If you think I could grow weary of loving you then perhaps you aren’t my other half at all.”

SkekGra ponders this, eyes dropping to his own body in lieu of a response that would only fall short. Tired, he thinks, and old. He tries to ignore the scars this time; the way they glimmer when he shifts unnerves him still. UrGoh slides a warm palm over his belly, and he twitches as it roves over a ticklish spot. 

“Of all the things I have done in my life,” he offers at length, ‘being your other half is the most precious to me.” 

He is so acutely aware that the statement barely touches the depth of feeling he has on that subject and would append it were his tongue not twisting into knots. How hard it is, he thinks, to be succinct when looking at urGoh when urGoh looks like _this_. Completing this radiant creature whose love for him is somehow not only real, but thriving, endless, effervescent in urGoh’s own quiet way is something he can never find words meaningful enough to capture. He finds it alarming too to consider that urGoh himself _needs_ completed, that he is somehow lesser, or wanting, without him. 

UrGoh for his part is telepathic enough to roll over, drape two arms over him and plant his head against skekGra’s shoulder and below his chin; there to say without words that he knows just how skekGra feels and that he feels it too, and to keep him, skekGra has a sneaking suspicion, from opening his mouth again and sullying the moment with more chatter.

He must really want to sleep, he thinks, and cannot find any part of him that doesn’t want to join him.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're as cursed with these two as I am please comment and let me know :P


End file.
